“Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get.” Forrest Gump’s all-encompassing and ubiquitous line most certainly applies to dating.
I love surprises – and people are full of them. They bring their shiny tin-foil wrapping to first dates, encase their dating profiles in enticing metallic paper. We all know that competition is high, that we’re surrounded by other attractively packaged chocolates, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, one after another after another. Everyone puts their best face first.
I love sinking my teeth into someone and suddenly discovering that they’re not quite who I thought they were. I’m a cynic, so naturally I’m often pleasantly surprised by the gooey contents of gym bros or disarmed by the hard core of women who look like butter wouldn’t melt.
Through dating, I’m not only surprised by other people, I’m often surprised by myself.
With every first date, every romantic fling, “failed talking stage” and extended love affair, I discover something new about myself. I learn to love gnocchi, I learn my local bus routes by rote (thanks to a boy who used to inexplicably quiz me on it). I’m inspired to try graphic liner and become vicariously disenchanted with the publishing industry.
I even learned to code, once, as a direct result of a romantic interest. I surprised him with a website I’d built from scratch, having taken a three-month coding course, that included a nude generator (ALL for him!). Even though that relationship ended long ago, I still know the basics of web design.
I discover new turn-ons (and turn-offs) and always delight in these revelatory moments. Through dating (and sleeping) around I’ve uncovered kinks, new songs to play on repeat, new places.
I date and I date and I date because how could I not when there’s so much out there? With so many delectably dressed chocolates to try, how could I resist dipping my hand in, taking a bite from every one?
There are cocktails to drink on Brick Lane with formidable blondes, brunches to be had in East London with first-class mathematicians, red wine to drink on balconies overlooking rooftop infinity pools and coffee to drink with men who use words like “bucolic” in text exchanges. With every date I uncover new corners of London, of life and of my own identity.
I always say to my friends that dating in your twenties is about figuring out what you want, whilst also figuring yourself out. I’m not dating to marry. I’m dating to figure out who I am and – maybe – who I want to marry. With every relationship I uncover new insecurities and I surprise myself with startling moments of “growth” and maturity. After every break-up, my laundry list of “must haves” and “red flags” gets longer and more specific.
Whilst I know that I’m never going to find someone who meets ALL of my criteria, it’s extremely helpful to know that I need to be with someone who shares at least a few of my interests (sounds obvious, but it’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way). I’ve learned that, above all else, I need to be with someone who can make me laugh until I cry, who I have the most fun with, who allows me to be my silliest self whilst bringing me back down to earth whenever I need a grounding influence.
I’ve always been a maximalist. I happily clutter my shelves with offbeat trinkets. And I’ll happily clutter my life with people – many of whom, if gathered in one room together, would have little to say to one another. It doesn’t matter that they don’t match me, or each other.
By relinquishing the idea that dates have to result in full-blown romantic relationships, which eventually lead to marriage, I’ve opened myself up to myriad experiences – like gnocchi and JavaScript and mouth-spitting and Persian cats.